


Teach Your Heart To Feel

by phoenix089



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century
Genre: Almost Fluff, Boys being stupidly ignorant, Drabble, Fluff so subtle blink and you miss it, Gen Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-04
Updated: 2012-03-04
Packaged: 2017-11-01 02:27:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/350941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix089/pseuds/phoenix089
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotions are things that Sherlock has no use for - They're unpredictable, irrational, and cumbersome. That doesn't mean they don't come to the surface when a case lands the one person Sherlock cares for in hospital though. Johnlock if you squint</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teach Your Heart To Feel

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [This](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lxt5qtfGYz1r69pqjo1_500.gif) gif <33

It was entirely irrational, he was well aware of that. But, it would seem, that his body was betraying him once again, because Sherlock simply couldn't stop himself from pacing outside of the hospital room. First one way, and then the other, and with each pass of the door, he couldn't help but glance into the window – Despite the fact that there was a curtain drawn around the bed that he _wanted_ to see.

_Absurd_ , Sherlock mentally chided, even as he continued his pacing, _He's perfectly alright. The wound wasn't in a critical area, and while it certainly isn't a superficial wound, the chance of recovery without scaring is at seventy nine percent. This reaction is … ridiculous._

He just couldn't seem to unfurl his traitorous hands though, clenched into tight fists hidden within his coat pockets as they were . Neither could he convince himself to sit down and simply _wait_ , instead of pacing around like some expecting father, or something equally irritating.

Speaking of irritating, the way that Mycroft was watching him with an arched eyebrow was really starting to become intolerable. Sherlock could cope with silently berating himself for his irrational behaviour – To have another, and his brother no less, witness said irrationality, was simply unacceptable.

Before either brother could say something to the other – Something condescending and borderline defensive in Sherlock's case, and something bewildered yet amused at his brother's unusual antics on Mycroft's part – The door of the surgery suite was finally thrown open and a nurse wandered out (Thirty two. Bottle blonde. Strongly considering leaving her husband because she fancies the receptionist in the Clinic) looking as though she'd just witnessed the most exhausting surgery in existence.

Sherlock didn't even bother to wait for her to give her – predictable, and therefore boring - analysis before he pushed past her and made his way to the still curtained-off bed, ignoring her indignant cry as he went. He vaguely heard Mycroft sigh and say, "Do forgive him. He's anxious for his … … Well, he's anxious. I'm sure you understand."

His eyebrows twitched together as he considered those words - His … What? No. Such thoughts were irrelevant, trivial, unimportant. Once again ignoring the nurses lingering in the room, and their uncertain "Sir?", Sherlock pulled the curtain aside, his eyebrows knit together with emotions he cared not to identify.

And then the frown he'd been wearing morphed into a relieved smile – _There's no reason to be relieved. You knew he was fine_ , his internal voice sighed, but the relief was there all the same – Because, there, propped up on a few pillows, was John Watson. He was shockingly pale still – Sherlock would have to make sure he ate adequately that night – but aware enough that he was able to glare up at Sherlock from his lower vantage point, which was a vast improvement from the gasped _Sherlock_ he'd given before passing out hours before.

"John," Sherlock breathed, his eyes darting down to the Doctor's left side, taking in the craftsmanship of the stitches critically. His eyes flicked back up as John spoke to him though. 

"Do you think that, maybe, next time there's a chance the people we're chasing have weapons, you could give me some form of a warning?" he asked, his mouth pulled into a tight frown. 

"Don't be absurd John, there's always a _chance_ they'll have weapons – They're criminals after all –" Sherlock trails off at the icier-than-usual glare John is giving him, "But, I suppose I could make a concentrated effort to let you know if the chance is higher than usual," he amends slowly. 

"Thankyou," John huffs, and Sherlock's lips quirk into a brief smile of their own accord. 

The two are silent for a moment, Sherlock's eyes flickering over the several monitors to ascertain for himself that John _is_ perfectly alright, while John shifts to try and find a position that's more comfortable while not stretching the still tender skin.

As Sherlock picks up the clipboard hanging off the end of the bed, John sighs heavily and asks, "Well? What did you discover?" , and Sherlock can't help but smile a little bit to himself at the question. With that, he knows that he's been forgiven … Even if he isn't entirely sure what his misdeed was this time.

**Author's Note:**

> It seems that, as much as I adore JohnLock, whenever I try to write for them, it just comes out painfully generic. I'll have to work on that.  
> Hope you enjoyed the fic all the same though!


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